


Memory

by Mousieta



Category: his (movie)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Pining, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousieta/pseuds/Mousieta
Summary: A little ficlet exploring Shun's point of view at a couple key points of the movie.
Relationships: Igawa Shun/ Hibino Nagisa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Memory

Memory was a strange thing. Shun hadn’t though of _them_ in years. Probably not since he’d stored _them_ away the first week he’d moved in. Yet only a few days after Nagisa had arrived - Sora in tow - it seemed that they were all he could think about, searing his mind with their existence. 

Nagisa was still in Tokyo, Sora finally asleep when the burning grew too intense, heat unbearable. He found himself opening the drawer that was always closed and reached for them: the letters he’d hidden away; unable to bear losing them, unable to bear seeing them, they’d laid forgotten until this week. 

Memory was a strange thing. He could remember the pain the sight of the envelopes had once brought. He know they’d hurt him, yet he could not seem to bring up the sharp sting that had knifed him the day he’d bound them together. There was pain, but memory provided a different ache, a pang with blunted edges that cut gently. Fondness, not bitterness. Desire, not longing. 

Memory provided echos of laughter, the ghosts of playful teasing that had accompanied each photograph. Laughter, and not a little bit of lust. 

They were so much younger then, he noted as he flipped through the pictures. But memory made it seem only weeks ago, brought that time, that joy, those years together so close the intervening time seemed just a long winter dream. Memory brought a soft laugh that spilled past his lips in a gentle huff as he looked down upon Nagisa mugging for the camera. 

He bound the letters again and reached for _it_ , fingers grazing the familiar, woolen softness. He brought the sweater out, pressed his face into it. 

Memory is a miracle. He breathed in the scent of the sweater. It had long sense lost the smell it had the day he’d taken it. It now smelled of his laundry soap, of his home, of nothing. And yet, as he inhaled deeply he could smell the rich scent of Nagisa surrounding him. 

The smell of Nagisa the morning he’d broken Shun’s heart; but also, the smell of Nagisa the night before that, when, laughing, he’d ripped the sweater off the moment before they’d fallen into bed together; the smell of Nagisa on cold winter nights when they’d cuddled together in their tiny university apartment; the smell of Nagisa as they embraced in the early morning hours, tight, before they separated for long days of classes and part-time jobs and studying. The sweater smelled of all these things and he breathed in a little deeper. 

Dangerous, to lose himself so. He needed the bitterness. The anger. But with Nagisa here, looking at him the way he did, it was hard to remember just how angry he _should_ be. And that was dangerous. Good then, that the sound of a car driving up pulled him away. 

Good then… that Nagisa, himself, could provide new reasons for anger, even as doing so crumbled Shun’s barriers a little further. 

* * *

The thing about memories is they do not lay nicely, chronologically organized in the mind. They sprawl out, touching each other, falling over one another in a chaotic jumble. Shun had fought, for years, to seal away the memories of Nagisa. Only to have Nagisa, in his brash, unashamed, incorrigible way, charge through all the walls carefully constructed around their memory. 

And now they were all gone, obliterated by the only man capable of doing so. 

Shun padded into his room, adrenaline ebbing, the high of coming out to the whole village finally receding. He stood in his room, Nagisa in the living room sipping the coffee he’d made. He stood in front of the drawer, accepting a choice his heart had already long since made, had probably made that first day _they_ had arrived. 

They hadn’t talked, yet, had not defined what they were now. Those types of things didn’t ever occur to Nagisa like they did to him. 

Shun had stood in that room and made the declaration, “Nagisa is the love of my life”. He’d been so open- vulnerable. But he hadn’t actually told Nagisa, yet - hadn’t explained what he wanted, what they meant. 

Nagisa probably hadn’t even noticed. Probably didn’t care- no, he stopped himself. Nagisa _did_ care. He would care. Deeply. But Shun had confessed the depths of his emotions to The Village, which was a very different thing to confessing to Nagisa himself, to telling Nagisa that he meant everything, that Shun wanted to fill the rest of his life with their memories together. 

Shun had said these things to _them_ but he had not yet said them to _him._ Nagisa would see them as the same thing, he’d been in the room after all. But the difference meant something to Shun. 

So he opened the drawer and pulled on the sweater, tugging it over his head as he walked out to Nagisa to inscribe upon their minds a new memory. 


End file.
